Mass Effect: Where Broken Alleys Meet
by Suffering Soldier
Summary: Sometimes, doing the right thing means turning your back on everything you know. But Omega is no place to grow a conscience, and the price for disloyalty is paid in blood. Pre-Mass Effect 2 AU. Majority OC cast. Rated for violence and explicit language.


The harsh orange glow of aged neon signage cast a grim light across Samuel's face as he stood with his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.

It was uncomfortably chilly—as was common enough in the less populous parts of Omega, though the human seemed to take little notice.

He stood in thoughtful silence outside one of the station's many dives, where the distraught and disenfranchised could drink in solitude with their misery. He, however, was here on business.

Generally, this wasn't the kind of thing that Sam had to do personally anymore; nowadays he had people who handled it for him, but when the Boss told you to take care of something _personally_, you damn well did it.

Still, it had done little to stop him grappling with himself over his instructions. He understood _why _it had to be him, and a part of him believed that perhaps it was better this way, but such self-reassurances could do nothing to cleanse the situation of its inherent wrongness.

Despite this, he entered the establishment, though the way he walked had a certain reluctance about it.

Pausing only a few steps beyond the doorway, he took in the heavy stench of smoke and alcohol that permeated the faux wood of the tables and bar counter. One lonesome soul sat at the latter atop a well-worn barstool, his shoulders slackened and back turned to the door. The batarian had been sitting with his elbows propped on the bar to brace his lowered head with both palms, but he'd slowly sat up when he had heard Samuel enter.

"I figured he'd send you." The seated alien said quietly without turning, his voice heavy with resignation.

"Yeah," the human replied flatly, though his face bore a small frown.

In the confines of the barroom, only a little more than a meter and a half separated the two. Sam shot a look to the salarian bartender who was idly polishing glasses in the far corner of the room and regarding the pair with increasing suspicion.

The raven-haired human faltered slightly and suddenly tasted blood, making him realize he'd been biting his lower lip since uttering the lone word. Darmaun was as noble a soul as any in this wretched hellhole, and the reminder sent a rare wave of hesitation through his mind.

"If…" the batarian cocked his head slightly at the desperate edge to Sam's voice, "If you wanted to run,"

Darmaun sighed. "I'm tired of running."

Craning his head so he could meet his friend's eye, he offered the younger man a sad smile. "I always knew Omega would kill me someday. In the end, I'm just glad it's you pulling the trigger."

Reaching into a pocket, the alien produced a small silver object that shimmered faintly in the light from the lamp that hung overhead.

"The Boss gave me this when I first took over my district." He explained as he set the lighter down on the counter. "You may as well have it."

Samuel nodded sternly, though his stoic expression broke into one of sorrow under the batarian's gaze. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"So am I." Darmaun replied, his voice low and husky.

Turning back to the bar, he lifted the drink in front of him to his lips, his hand trembling slightly. Draining the remainder of the amber liquor it held in a single gulp, he inverted the empty glass in his hand and set it down on the counter.

The batarian drew a deep breath—savoring the last aromas this world had to offer him as he closed his eyes.

Likewise, Sam inhaled sharply and let the air escape steadily through pursed lips as he took a moment to steel himself for what he was about to do.

Then—in one fluid motion—he pulled a Carnifex from inside his jacket, leveled it, and compressed the trigger a single time without flinching.

Darmaun jerked as the tungsten projectile passed through the back of his head and continued out the other side, demolishing a bottle rack and spraying the area behind the counter with a sickly collage of grey matter and liquor.

The gunman silently watched the blood pool on the bar with a frown as steel-colored smoke wafted from the barrel of the pistol that now hung at his waist. Taking a half step forward, he collected the silver pocket lighter from the top of the bar and tucked it within one of the pockets of his coat.

A subtle chill ran down Samuel's neck at the sound of the weapon compacting in his hand as he stowed it in the holster beneath his left arm.

Nine years ago, the human had stumbled onto one of Omega's filthy docks—not a credit to his name and disillusioned with a life that had shown him its blackest face.

Darmaun had taken him off the streets. He'd given him a place to stay, a job, a _purpose_. The batarian hadn't done it as a part of some long term angle, but instead because he found in Sam a kindred spirit—another soul discarded by fate.

And Samuel had repaid that kindness with a _fucking bullet_.

His lips curling into a proper scowl, Sam regarded his surroundings once more. For a moment, he contemplated ordering a drink, and a quick glance at the bartender made the salarian jump.

Ultimately, he decided against it though as his hand found the pack of cigarettes in his jacket. Pulling one of the paper-wrapped cylinders from the container, he placed it between his lips and fumbled momentarily for a light.

His fingers found the cool metal of the lighter he'd deposited in his pocket only a moment ago and he paused before pushing the object into a deeper part of his pocket, opting instead to use his omni-tool.

Stealing a glance at the time as he ignited the cigarette, he took a long drag and let the acrid taste of the synthetic tobacco fill his mouth.

The cleaners would be there in a few minutes, and it would be in bad form to stick around. Letting the smoldering cylinder hang between his lips, he buried his hands in his pockets and turned for the door.

Light grey vapor billowing from his nostrils, Samuel stepped back into the familiar stench of decay that permeated Omega's streets.

On the opposite side of the avenue, a dark-clad turian leaned against the side of a parked aircar. Seeing the human emerge from the tavern he pushed himself off the vehicle's glass canopy, a three fingered hand hovering over the submachine gun concealed within the folds of his heavy coat, but the departing lieutenant cast a dismissive wave in the alien's direction as he made his way to his own vehicle.

Detecting his proximity, the glass canopy of the aircar rose and he clambered inside. A few strokes of the haptic interface on the dashboard brought the engine to life and it quickly lifted off, disappearing into the haze of Omega's eternal night.

The craft darted through the maze of rusty and crumbling buildings that made up the station's wretched skyline as Samuel set a course back toward the upper districts situated near the main spaceport. Allowing the computer to take over, he slumped back into the pilot's seat.

A part of him wished he could just break down—wished he could cry for Darmaun and himself and for what he'd done, but he just couldn't find the tears. No matter how deeply he searched himself, he couldn't find any sadness, just the weight of anger that sat heavily in his gut. It was the blind, directionless loathing that burned away at the inside of his chest life like a smoldering coal, and if it wasn't himself that he hated, then who?

His skycar descended toward the broken labyrinth of buildings and weaved through the corridors of stone and decayed steel. As he approached the commercial district, bright neon signs and advertisements on massive screens began to appear on the sides of the towers until every inch of the station seemed to bask in the glow of an artificial star.

As his anger seemed to fade into the recesses of his mind, he suddenly realized how thoroughly exhausted he was. His eyes ached at the disagreeable light of Omega's clubs and shops and his mind seemed unable to consider anything besides sleep, despite the tempest of emotions that swirled inside of him. Surrendering to the sensation, he sank deeper into his seat and closed his eyes.

The vehicle jostled him awake a short time later with a sharp turn as it entered a bay in one of the towering apartment structures and gently setting down between two other aircars.

Ducking slightly to avoid the craft's rising canopy, he disembarked and headed for the far side of the garage. A set of glass double doors parted as Samuel approached, letting him into a medium sized lobby. Taking an abrupt right toward the elevator, a voice halted him.

"Long night at the office, Clancy?"

Turning on his heel, he glanced at the time on his wrist and gave a sigh as a smile split his fatigued expression. Senia sat on the opposite side of the manager's desk, her lithe blue fingers steepled and the faint violet tattoos on either cheek creased with a grin of her own.

"Longer than most," He replied after a long moment, his smile vanishing for a split second before returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes as it had before. "What about you? It's nearly three-thirty."

"No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid." She announced, indicating a nearby stack of datapads. The asari ran book for the Syndicate and managed the apartment complex—also one of the organization's holdings. It was one of the few respectable jobs for an asari maiden on Omega, and certainly one of the better paying ones. It seemed an awful waste for her to peddle talents in the Terminus, but he was sure she had her reasons. There were of course the odd barroom whisperings that she'd been a favorite consort of the Boss, but Samuel wasn't one to lend the rumors any credence.

She'd never seemed to him anything other than sincere, if perhaps a bit blissfully unmindful of how grim life on the station could truly be, though if it was because she'd seen so little of it or was simply well-adjusted, he couldn't say.

"I hear that," He agreed, stifling a yawn. Taking one last uncertain glance around the otherwise empty lobby, he glanced back to the asari and threw his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the lift. "Well, I'm going to turn in."

"Mhmm." Senia murmured, watching the human until he disappeared into the elevator before turning back to the stack of work on her desk.

Keying in his floor, the light-hearted attitude of Samuel's conversation with the property manager quickly evaporated, and he suddenly felt exhausted again. His entire body seemed doubly heavy and a migraine pushed from behind his eyes.

The lift doors parted and he slogged into the corridor and to the door of his residence, one of only two on the floor. Patting down the various pockets of his jacket and pants, he pulled an antiquated black and silver keycard from one of them and waved it across the door's sensor.

Stepping inside, he entered the small hall that lead into the rest of his home and tossed the keycard on a small table beside the door. Peeling off his jacket as he advanced to where the hallway widened to meet the living area, he tossed the jacket to the far side of the L-shaped couch.

Taking a few more steps, he fell forward, allowing the leather cushions and decorative pillows to catch him, too tired to kick off his shoes or take the extra twenty steps to reach his bed. Shifting uncomfortably as the Carnifex under his arm was pushed into his side, he managed to wrench it from its holster without getting up. Reaching with an outstretched hand, he found the end of the coffee table and deposited it there before letting his head fall back into the pillows.

In spite of everything that had happened—despite the remorse and anguish that he knew was sure to find him—Samuel slept like a rock.


End file.
